


Dicks and Doritos

by ravesinthesky



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cold, Flu, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Stridercest - Freeform, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravesinthesky/pseuds/ravesinthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re name is Dave Strider and man oh man are you disgusting. No seriously. You’re like… fucking gross. All coughing fits and sneezing on your pj bottoms like one of those fucking ghost slimes from that Ghostbusters shit John made you watch. Except if ectoplasm was actually icky, snotty mucus, which in your case, it totally is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dicks and Doritos

You’re name is Dave Strider and man oh man are you disgusting.

No seriously. You’re like… fucking gross. All coughing fits and sneezing on your pj bottoms like one of those fucking ghost slimes from that Ghostbusters shit John made you watch. Except if ectoplasm was actually icky, snotty mucus, which in your case, it totally is.

“Bro,” you scream from your death bed. Which was actually your living room couch, because no way in hell were you risking getting your snot all over your bed. No response. “Brooooo,” comes another shout, but your voice is all weak and raspy and shit so all that comes out is sort of a muffled groan. “I know you can hear me, you fucker. Where’s my soup.”

The loud, cluttered noise of pans clanking against each other and couple profanities later, your brother barrels out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of… not chicken noodle soup.

“Uh, what’s this.”

He sets the hot bowl down on the end table next to you and places a spoon beside it. “Soup,” he grunts under his breath and turns to leave.

“What the hell’s floatin’ in it?!” you moan and use the spoon to poke around at the unidentified fucking objects just chilling in the broth. UFOs for short. “Dude is that… are those Doritos?” you reel back in horror and fling the spoon. The utensil spirals out of control with a trail of soup streaming from behind it like a fucking comet. Wish upon a star motherfucker. The spoon leaves a stain on the cushions, and you stick your tongue out at him. “This is gross. I’m not eating it.”

Bro rolls his eyes at you. “Don’t be such a brat. Eat the soup.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Ok so you knew you were pushing the guy, but you mean… come on! Soggy bits of Dorito in what looked like… tomato soup? How on any fucking planet was that acceptable get-better-soon sustenance. You don’t care if you’re being picky.

“No way. And that’s final.”

He’s actually starting to get a little red in the face now, and you wonder if maaaaaybe you went a liiiittle too far with your refusal. “Listen, you little shit. I made this for you. Now eat it or else,” he mumbles in that gruff voice of his, and you can tell from the crease in his eyebrows and the wrinkles around the corners of him mouth, he’s not in the mood for your bullshit.

You’re about to respond, but just end up dissolving into a fit of coughs and sneezes until your doubled over on the couch wheezing for air. When you surface for a breath, Bro’s expression has violently changed. He almost looks… apologetic? No way. No fucking way.

“Ok… fine. If you want, I can run down to Walmart and see if they have any chicken noodle. It’ll only be, like, fifteen minutes top.”

You seriously can’t believe this. Bro never, and you literally mean never, gives in or gives up. And for whatever reason he’s decided to care enough to actually offer to leave the house, you’re pretty fucking touched.

“Wait no, dude. You don’t have to do that. I’ll eat the soup!”

“… You don’t have to, Dave.”

“… Ok good because to be honest I think I saw something move underneath a tomato chunk a couple minutes ago, so…”

And at that comment, Bro climbs onto the couch, being extremely careful not to knock over the offending bowl or soup, and plops down next to you.

“S-stop,” you rasp and push him away. “You’re… c-crushin’ me…”

“Don’t care.”

He gathers you up with big, really fucking huge, arms and practically squeezes the air straight from your shriveled lungs. Pulling you closer, he cuddles you against his broad chest and places a cheek over your head protectively.

“Uh…”

“When do you think you’ll be feelin’ better, lil man?” You can’t see him, but you hear the desperate tone in his voice.

“Um, I’m not sure. Couple of days?”

“Okay.”

You two stay like that for a while, you just sniffling against his neck while he strokes your back. At one point, he lies down and stretches so you can rest comfortable on top of him. He’s warm, so warm… And sturdy. And smelled really, really fucking good.  
Burrowing your nose into his shirt, you take another deep intake of Bro smell, and then nuzzle into him. He’s got one arm stretched back and bent, elbow tucked behind his head, and the other one lazy draped across you in just the right angle so that he can lazily drag his fingers through your hair.

You felt a million times better already.

“Hey, Bro?”

“Hmm?”

“You smell good.”

He’s silent, so you glance up at him only to see his blank poker face reflecting back at you. But you definitely sense a shift in the mood. You smile softly, and then lay your head back down, this time on his belly, and poke your tongue out. Finding his belly button, you trace the indent with your tongue, and leave a tiny wet spot. Bro stays quiet, so you move upwards. This time, doing the same thing, lapping at the white fabric with the tip of your tongue, but you’re overtop of his nipples this time. You don’t stop until the area under your mouth is drenched, and you can see the faint outline of a puckered red, nub underneath. Traveling north, you drag your tongue against his neck, tasting his skin and the rough stubble growing there. Bro’s mouth is open, his tongue laying limp at the bottom, and chest heaving almost silently under you, except for the soft, breathing noses coming from his lips.

Mouthing at the spot under his ear, you pepper kisses from his chin back around to the other ear, whose earlobe you capture in your mouth and nibble delicately. You let it drop form your mouth, breaking the thin strand of spit attaching you to him with your lips, and dive back down to lavish his neck.

But, surprise surprise, Bro wraps his fingers in your hair and pulls you up towards his face. Attacking your mouth with him, he kisses you furiously until you can tug your lips apart.

“Stop! I’ll get you sick, dumbass.”

“Don’t care,” he murmurs back at you, and you feel your hips stir at the tone of his voice. You aren’t wearing any underpants, just a thin pair of plaid pj bottoms and a cottony red T shirt. Barely anything. Bro’s thighs, so solid and warm, are rock hard between your legs.

Moving your hips a bit, you test the waters. Bro throws his head back a fraction of an inch, and you know this is a good sign. Continuing your gyrations, you yank his head back, knocking that dumb cap away in doing so, and go back at his mouth. Taking his bottom lip between your teeth, you gently bite down and coax a groan from him.

You feel his hand grasp your ass and knead at the flesh there, so you reach one arm back, grab him, and plunge both of your hands under the tight elastic of your pants.

Bro clasps onto the bare skin and swipes a calloused thumb across the dimples above your ass. He squeezes, massages, and presses his fingers in all the right places he knows will entice a reaction from you, so you reward him by throwing your own head back and letting him kiss at your pale neck.

Moving your hips a bit faster, you rut against him and gather a tight handful of his shirt. You fist at the fabric, clenching and unclenching your fingers until he releases your neck with a wet pop and tugs your down for another open mouthed kiss.

That’s when you feel it. The beginnings of a sneeze. Oh hell no. Oh hell fucking no.

You can’t stop it. The disaster cannot be averted. Faster than you can say “motherfucking ballsacks”, you bring your mouth away from his just to sneeze right over top of him.

Bro shouts and is showered in 100% farm grade Strider mucus.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you moan in humiliation, and practically fly off of him.

“Naw… naw… it’s ok… Oh god… ew ew ew….”

You spend the rest of the night alone, watching shitty soap operas, and listening to Bro sing off key to some J-pop song while he showers off your germs.

And yes, he does get sick in the next few days. And yes, you do put crushed Doritos in his soup.


End file.
